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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919093">give me one good movie kiss</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmebots/pseuds/femmebots'>femmebots</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>beside young death [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Other, Pre-Relationship, Reader-Insert, because alucard castlevania is a bi goth and i won't let anyone forget it, literally that meme of the one girl doing the other girl's makeup, this one goes out to my fellow bisexuals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:54:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmebots/pseuds/femmebots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You feel confident, at least, that this shenanigan won’t end with you being kidnapped by an Aleister Crowley wannabe. That’s something.</i>
</p>
<p>In which you have a gala to attend, Alucard makes it his business, and everything is better with lipstick.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alucard (Castlevania)/Reader, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>beside young death [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>give me one good movie kiss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>well, folks, we're back at it again. this is somehow <i>even more</i> self-indulgent than the first installment, but hopefully someone will get a kick out of it. as before, i've left the reader's gender unspecified and no pronouns are used; however, the reader does wear lipstick, so if makeup is a dysphoria trigger for you, or will take you out of the story, you might want to skip this one.</p>
<p>i rewrote the ending three times trying to achieve the right level of horny. just so you're aware of the things i do for my craft</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hard to say whether you should be flattered or worried that an aspiring cult leader is interested in your work on demon pelvic morphology. For now, you’ve settled on a bit of both. Like, yes, maybe the association makes you look bad, but it’s always exciting to meet a fan.</p>
<p>“Do you think this says something about me?” you asked the cat earlier, while you were rifling through your closet for formalwear. He cracked open one eye to stare at you, then helpfully went back to sleep.</p>
<p>You feel confident, at least, that this shenanigan won’t end with you being kidnapped by an Aleister Crowley wannabe. That’s something. Security is pretty intense at the museum’s galas — even if it’s mostly dedicated to keeping people away from the cursed artifacts — and beyond that, you seem to have acquired a personal bodyguard for the evening.</p>
<p>In your experience, Alucard doesn’t do parties. He hasn’t attended any events at the museum since you began working there, and the idea of him <em>clubbing</em> is so implausible it’s hilarious. And yet here he is, sat awkwardly on your sofa in an ensemble you can only describe as “gothic heroine chic,” all lantern sleeves and dark ascot. You watch his reflection in the bathroom mirror while you fix your hair.</p>
<p>“I’ll be fine,” you call over to him. “I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me.”</p>
<p>You try to say it like a joke, but the words come out more petulant than you’d like. Alucard shifts, turning to shoot you a quizzical look. “It’s no trouble,” he replies, which is probably meant to be reassuring, but instead it just makes you feel worse.</p>
<p>It’s like this: you’re not some scion of a warrior dynasty who started combat training at the age of four. You’re not even a professional magician. Other people slay the monsters, then <em>you</em> step in and study their remains, and most days, you’re at peace with that. Tonight, though, you can’t help but wonder how pathetic you must look to somebody like Alucard.</p>
<p>“I can handle milking one cultist for information. I’m not completely helpless, you know,” you say, taking out your frustration on a stubborn tangle in your hair. Alucard’s mirror-reflection frowns; the expression vaguely reminds you of a math teacher who can’t figure out how you even came up with an answer <em>this</em> wrong. You’re grateful that he doesn’t ask you to show your work.</p>
<p>“I know,” he says. For what it’s worth, he sounds sincere. “But one can never be too cautious with men like Graham Jones.”</p>
<p>You decide to take him at his word. Alucard can definitely be a bit cryptic in his communications, but you’ve never known him to be dishonest. “Shall I hide a dagger up my sleeve?” you ask, affecting your poshest voice in an attempt to lighten the mood.</p>
<p>“That’s not a terrible idea,” says Alucard.</p>
<p>Yikes. You don’t love to hear it.</p>
<p>“Okay, point taken,” you sigh, and let the subject drop. Glancing from Alucard’s reflection back to your own, you turn to scrutinizing the bags underneath your eyes. Normally you wouldn’t bother to hide them (you <em>are</em> tired, and that’s everybody else’s problem), but you suppose you can adhere to societal beauty standards for one fancy evening.</p>
<p>You rummage around the medicine cabinet for concealer, then smear it over the dark circles with your finger because you can’t be assed to look for a sponge. You no longer look sleep-deprived enough to commit murder, and that’s about as good as you’re going to get.</p>
<p>“Are you ready to go, then?” comes Alucard’s voice from the living room.<em> I literally didn’t even invite you and now you have the nerve— the absolute gall— to act like I’m making us late</em>, half of your brain gripes. The other half is temporarily out of order, because this conversation has taken an abrupt turn for the domestic that you don’t know how to process.</p>
<p>What comes out of your mouth is something like: “Uh, let me just. Lipstick.”</p>
<p>Lipstick, at least, is in your wheelhouse.</p>
<p>Though you’re briefly tempted to go full Academia Goth, you admit the black lipstick might be a bit much for a work event. You probably can’t go wrong with your old standby, that shade of dark burgundy that’s gotten a number of compliments over the years. You distract yourself with the familiar routine of applying, pressing your lips together, dabbing off the excess with a scrap of toilet paper— and when you glance up again, Alucard is standing in the bathroom door.</p>
<p>You hiss a noise that sounds like a keysmash, or possibly the name of an antidepressant. “I apologize,” he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”</p>
<p>It’s his own fault for being preternaturally graceful all the damn time. He should just stomp around the house like everyone else. “I open my home to you and this is how you repay me?”</p>
<p>You expect him to laugh, or at least smirk at you while you jingle your little clown bells for his entertainment. But he’s looking at you without a trace of mirth. Neither of you speaks for a moment, and then he murmurs, “You look good.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” you breathe. You’re still holding the lipstick tube, a detail that your mind clings to like a life preserver. “Thanks. It— it’s probably the lipstick, I mean, this color goes with everything.” This is already an extremely stupid thing to say. But you’re not one to rest on your laurels when it comes to stupidity, so you add: “I could do yours too, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>A beat.</p>
<p>“God, sorry—”</p>
<p>“No, I—”</p>
<p>“Sorry, that was weird, forget I said anything—”</p>
<p>“Would you?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>Alucard hesitates. “Your offer,” he finally mutters. “I’m not opposed.”</p>
<p>You look at him, then at the lipstick, then back at him, feeling like you’ve stumbled into some bizarro dream world. (No matter how many times he lets you past his walls, even just for a moment, a part of you is always surprised.) It’s not the answer you expected, but then, Alucard turns a lot of your expectations on their heads. Maybe you like that about him.</p>
<p>“Okay,” you say gently. “Come here.”</p>
<p>You flip down the toilet cover and gesture for him to sit, which he does without protest. His tall, lean frame looks comically out of place in your apartment’s tiny bathroom, like an adult sitting in a toddler’s chair; you have to suppress a smile at the sight of his knees all folded up. You scoot over to stand in front of him, lipstick in hand. “Look up for me?”</p>
<p>He does, and your heart thumps so embarrassingly hard you can feel it down in your stomach. You’ve never been this close to him before, you realize, and he’s— well, he’s kind of beautiful, is the thing. Your gaze traces his brow, the pale lashes that frame his golden eyes. The long, straight bridge of his nose. The sharp angle of his cheek.</p>
<p>Gently, you reach out with your free hand and lift his chin. Alucard’s breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away. He sits stone-still while you paint streaks of burgundy over the curve of his bottom lip, then again along the upper. “This color’s nice on you,” you muse.</p>
<p>He can’t say much, given his current position, but he hums in reply. You hope he doesn’t hear your heartbeat hammering against your ribs like a demented woodpecker.</p>
<p>“There.” You draw back reluctantly, your fingertips lingering a moment too long on his jaw. Alucard watches you go, his eyes suffused with some soft, uncertain emotion you can’t quite name.</p>
<p>(You know exactly what it is. It’s the same way you look at him.)</p>
<p>“Well?” he asks, getting to his feet. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, you think, without much success. “Have I been made up to your exacting standards?”</p>
<p>Your lipstick looks good on him, of course. Pretty much <em>everything</em> looks good on him, to your consternation, but this look in particular, the wine-red lips contrasting with the grave pallor of his face, is a keeper. And not just because you feel a weird possessive warmth seeing him wear your makeup— but yes, that’s also part of it. You clear your throat. Hopefully your head will clear with it.</p>
<p>“See for yourself.” You motion him over to the bathroom mirror, making a show of scrutinizing his ensemble. He indulges your dramatics with a long-suffering smirk. “Hmm. You’re acceptable,” you declare.</p>
<p>“How kind of you to say so,” says Alucard dryly. Banter aside, he doesn’t seem displeased with the results of your impromptu makeover. You file that knowledge away for later.</p>
<p>You’re shaken out of your reverie when your phone lights up on the counter, flashing a notification from one of the stupid mobile games you have installed. “Shit,” you say, noticing what time it is. “We should get going.” Alucard wisely chooses not to remind you that he said the same thing ten minutes ago.</p>
<p>The cat, seeing you hustle out of the bathroom, hops down from his napping spot on the radiator. He rockets towards your legs, a shrieking orange blur. “Hi, Rigatoni,” you coo. “I gotta go honeypot a cult leader, but I’ll be back soon!”</p>
<p>“Mrrrp,” Rigatoni says.</p>
<p>“Thanks for your input,” you say, giving him a scratch behind the ear for good measure.</p>
<p>You make your way to the closet beside the front door to grab your winter coat. Rigatoni darts into the closet the second you open the door, as always. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Alucard grab his own coat from the coat rack in your living room: a hideous piece of furniture you bought to spite him after a passionate debate about interior decorating, and which he spites you back by actually using.</p>
<p>It’s strange to confront how much Alucard’s presence permeates your life. The horrible coat rack. The kitchen cabinet he’s filled with his favorite herbs and spices, because he took one look at your lunchmeat-and-noodles diet and decided to take over cooking duties. The yellow scarf on top of your dresser, which he gave you after the cat claimed it as his own personal blanket.</p>
<p>He’s going to this party for <em>you</em>. You’ve been reading it as an indictment of your survival skills, when all along it was another thinly-veiled excuse to be near you. God, no wonder everyone at the museum is gossiping.</p>
<p>“Ready?” you ask aloud, trying to shake the thought from your head. Your voice sounds small and unsteady. If Alucard notices, he decides not to comment.</p>
<p>He waits beside the front door while you search for your keys. (In the end, it turns out you already put them in your pocket.) Rigatoni emerges from the closet, weaving past you to mash his face against Alucard’s shins. You turn to see Alucard murmur a greeting to him, even though the cat’s leaving hair all over his nice black pants, and something about that just knocks you the <em>fuck</em> out.</p>
<p>“Hey, Alucard.” The hallway isn’t exactly spacious; one step forward, and you’d be close enough to touch him. One step seems an insurmountable distance. “Jokes aside— I’m glad you’re coming. I mean it.”</p>
<p>He’s giving you that look again, as if it’s been a lifetime since he’s seen anything like you, and he’s afraid that any sudden move will shatter the moment. But he cracks a smile when you add, “Granted, I could do without the unhinged occultists in the mix.”</p>
<p>“I’m inclined to agree with you,” he says, still smiling. You like his smile. Especially when you’re the cause of it. <em>Especially</em>, it turns out, when he’s wearing your lipstick.</p>
<p>This potent combination sparks a flash of either courage or insanity. You take a step forward. Then, reaching up to straighten the collar of his shirt: “Next time you want to go out with me, you don’t have to wait for one of us to be in mortal danger.”</p>
<p>Despite everything that’s gone down tonight, you’re still a little taken aback when Alucard places a hand atop yours. His thumb traces a slow arc over your knuckles, coming to rest in the divot between your own thumb and forefinger. His hands are cold, even in your sweltering apartment — the superintendent gets overzealous with the heat when winter comes — but you can’t find it in you to complain.</p>
<p>And then you’re kissing him.</p>
<p>Or he’s kissing you? Gun to your head, you couldn’t say who leaned in first— in this moment, all that matters is Alucard’s lips against yours. He’s cold there, too, but soft. Your free hand tangles in the white-blonde curls at the nape of his neck. Maybe you should be panicking that you’ve made a terrible mistake, dropped a nuclear bomb on your delicate friendship, but this doesn’t feel like a mistake. (It feels like something you should have done a long time ago.)</p>
<p>It’s a chaste sort of kiss, closed-mouth and gentle: not an explosion of passion so much as a slow falling into place. Still, he looks a mess when you pull apart, a smear of burgundy to the right of his lower lip and a faint flush across his cheeks.</p>
<p>“For luck,” you say, and brush away the stray lipstick with your thumb.</p>
<p>Alucard lets out a breathy little laugh. You’re not sure whether that’s a good laugh or a bad one, until he takes your head in his hands and presses another kiss to your forehead. “For luck,” he repeats, his lips forming the words against your temple.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>—</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It occurs to you, as you’re finally heading out the door, that you really <em>are</em> running late now. Your boss isn’t going to be thrilled about that, nor will the would-be cult leader coming to meet you.</p>
<p><em>Worth it</em>, you think, looking at the burgundy smudge on your fingertip. He’s worth it.</p>
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